


The Fortunate Fall

by thuvia ptarth (thuviaptarth)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-09
Updated: 2008-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-03 04:38:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thuviaptarth/pseuds/thuvia%20ptarth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fortunate Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Vanzetti and Rivka T. for the encouragement and Vehemently and cofax for the beta; any heresies are my own.

They fuck in the driver's seat, the crossroads dirt still beneath Sam's fingernails and fragments of gravel abraded into his palms; the gravel scratches stinging lines across Ruby's ass wherever he grips. She licks the salt off his neck before she bites down. Beneath the sour-salt sweat she can taste the corpse on him, the burnt wick of souls snuffed out: crossroads bitch and human host both gone past the power of Heaven or Hell to claim. Maybe he takes the bite as a challenge: he flips her over onto her back, laying her out in the front seat, banging her head against the car door handle and his elbow on the glove compartment. He curses but never slips out, and she laughs and locks her ankles in the small of his back.

"That's my boy," she says, tugging his sweat-damp hair. He bares his teeth at her. His eyes have been wide open the whole time; his face is as closed and hard as if he's beating her to death.

"Oh, baby," she croons. "Is this your first time with someone you don't like all that much?"

"Oh, baby." He snakes a hand between the sweaty press of their bellies, rubs his thumb over her clit. Every muscle in her body locks against the rush. "I don't like you _at all._"

"Oh, you like me a _little,"_ she says, with an upthrust.

His hands beneath her sweater unsnap her bra, crush her breasts: more assault than caress. "Liking's got nothing to do with this."

His heart drums beneath her smile: his body gives away all his secrets, like human bodies always do. "You just keep telling yourself that."

*

"So tell me." She shimmies back into her shucked underpants and jeans as he stares out the window, pretending he doesn't still stink of sex. "What made you say yes?"

He pastes on a leer like a clown mask. "I was overcome by your beauty."

It's a lie; lust isn't his weakness. She traces the clenched line of his jaw with a fingertip. "That's what all rapists say." Oh, _that _gets a flinch. "You know about demons and possession, right, Sam? Didn't it get you off, wondering whether she was asleep inside me or awake and screaming?"

"This is fascinating," he drawls, pulling back, propping one shoulder against the window: half-turned away from her. She scents guilt's blood trail. She _knew_ it. She knew this was the way to find the crack in him, the flaw that made him Azazel's brightest jewel. "Are we done yet?"

"Oh, yeah, you're tough," she says, all mocking admiration, eyes wide and hands held up. The brother's got to be in there somewhere: she jabs for envy. "Just like big brother, all dressed up in his clothes. That the idea, Sam? If Dean goes to hell, you're going with him?"

_Bullseye_. But he turns the stiffening shoulders into a shrug. "You know, I'm not usually thinking about my _brother_ just now."

"But now's not usual, now _is_ it? You've got a deadline. Unless you've given up? 'Cause I've got to tell you, Sam, I wouldn't have guessed despair was your thing."

The muzzle of the Colt prods into her throat, forcing her chin up. The metal's still warmer than human skin.

"Try wrath," he grinds out.

Oh, no. Little Sammy is _way_ too controlled for wrath. And she is way too useful to him to have to feel afraid. "Haven't you killed enough women tonight?"

He cocks the gun. "You've been paying so much attention, I shouldn't even have to ask."

She smiles all the sweeter. "But I like it when you beg."

"Tell me the name, bitch."

She says it breathy and deep, like a come-on: "You shoot now and you'll get brains all over your pretty face."

He grabs the base of her skull and smashes their foreheads together, gun still grinding into her throat, breath hot and sour and smelling of her skin. "_Who. Holds. The. Contract."_

She leans harder into the muzzle, into Sam's space, into Sam's face. "You forgot the magic word."

_"Tell me,"_ he demands, demon blood in his voice, earthquakes and the screaming of the damned.

"And what'll you do if I don't, Sam? What'll you do if Big Brother dies and goes down to the Pit? Will you blast open the gates of hell and let every last damned soul out?"

"If I have to." His grip tightens in her hair. "If I have to march through the gates of hell and kill every last demon there and set every damned soul free to get Dean out, _I will._"

"Cocky bastard, aren't you?" she says, mild as milk. Her soul sings with joy: _Got you! _ She should have known all along; she'd found Pride choking him silly when they first met. That crossroads bitch was right after all, and all wrong with it: pride isn't going to make Sam Winchester cut his brother loose. It's going to convince him he could save him after all. Pride tells him he can out-talk anyone and out-stubborn anything; pride tells him he's the smartest and strongest and most righteous man in the room. Pride tells him he's in charge. Pride tells him he just can't lose.

He tries to stare her down, but she's not human: she doesn't need to blink. Finally he shoves her loose and holsters the Colt in the back of his jeans.

"Get out."

"Be a gentleman," she chides. "Aren't you going to offer to drive me home?"

He's learning: he doesn't take the bait of _home._ He reaches across her to push the passenger-side door open: _my, what long arms you have. _"Don't come back unless you've got something to trade."

She gets out, then leans down in the open door, rubbing her fingers across the raw bruise left by the gun. "Thanks for the love-bite, Sam."

"It's been -- well, no," he says. "Actually, it hasn't been fun at all." He jerks the door out of her unresisting hands. She blows frost onto the window and kisses it. He doesn't bother to warn her before the car tears away.

*

She scuffs at the crossroad with toe and heel, but Sam buried the possessed woman's corpse deep enough for a location no cop's going to check. He's got a neat hand with a shovel, among his many other virtues, or vices, as the case may be. That whole family's got a gift for sin, liars and killers and thieves; she has some sympathy for that. She's done worse, if for greater goods. Seen mortals die by the thousand, blown down city walls. Heaven's will is hard to tell, and sometimes it's just plain hard.

Sam may even understand, after the fact; he's well on the way to making sacrifices for _his_ God. Idolaters every Winchester, root and branch, breaking the second commandment with every breath: prizing family above God, idolizing it worse than any golden calf. And Sam's the prodigal son come home, turned more loyal than those who never strayed.

Unlike Sam, she's no rebel; she never turned against her Father. If it turns out Azazel was Heaven's unknowing tool, and Heaven wants his plans fulfilled--if God and Lucifer agree it's the End of Days, and Sam Winchester needs to fall low enough to open the gates of Hell--she'll do Heaven's will.

Ruby never fell. Sam Winchester may not always be able to say the same.


End file.
